


An Informal Affair

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, First Meetings, Inexperienced Sherlock, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Tumblr Prompt, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:27:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the tumblr prompt: "Uni Sherlock meeting Uni John at a fancy dress party."</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Informal Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sweetscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetscribe/gifts).



> This is a tumblr promo fic in honour of my 1000th follower, [christmasbatch](http://christmasbatch.tumblr.com/) aka [Sweetscribe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetscribe/pseuds/Sweetscribe), who gave me this prompt. Big thanks to christmasbatch and all my other 999 followers - I love you all dearly!!!

Sherlock slumped against the cool marble pillar and tugged at his tie. He hated these affairs; self-important people with their petty little lives. The posturing, the fake smiles, the _small talk_.  How could they stand it?

It brought back long-suppressed memories of tedious nights by his mother’s side, all dressed up and trotted out like a trained pony, to be admired by her colleagues. Oh, look at the precocious child with the sharp eyes and clever tongue, perhaps he’ll play us something on his Strad, make him perform for a sea of strangers awash with patronising smiles. He’d thought when he’d left home he would be free from the grotesque spectacle of refined society, yet here he was, doomed to another interminable evening of mindless chatter and horrible people and absolutely crushing boredom. Apparently his presence was required to receive the honour of the Oxford Grant, the reception of which would fully fund his research for the next two years. One evening catering to polite society had seemed a small price to pay, but now, he wasn’t so sure. How to pass the time?

He scanned the crowd, seeking some stimulation, something to hold his interest, something beyond rich, old, and dull. A fruitless endeavour, he knew. Deductions for their own sake had long since lost any appeal, and the endless parade of power-hungry socialites before him told the same story again and again. He wondered whether revealing the Dean's affair with the director of Social Sciences would cause sufficient distraction to justify the necessary human interaction. No... though perhaps tampering with the lighting rig above the podium could be mildly entertaining. He was already assessing which screws to loosen to create maximum damage with minimal effort when a glint of golden light in the corner of his periphery drew his eye.

A tawny head of close-cropped hair popped in and out of his line of sight, intermittently blocked by a tall brunette in an ostentatious evening gown. Sherlock leaned forward, eyes narrowed, as if by sheer force of will he could remove the obstacle. He wasn't sure what had caught his eye, but he was familiar enough with the mechanics of his overactive brain—always churning away in the background, processing raw data faster than he could perceive it—to know when to pay attention. The obstruction shifted to the right, revealing a rather average-looking man in his early twenties. Seemingly unremarkable, and yet…

He pushed off the pillar and weaved through the crowd, each step bringing him closer to the enigmatically compelling young man. Deductions flew before his eyes: fellow student, also here to receive some award, upperclassman from a lower class family, highly motivated, needs the funds, likely for secondary studies given his age. The man took a sip from his drink—scrubbed hands, clipped nails, iodine stains around the cuticles—ah, medicine. He clearly didn’t belong here; his discomfort was palpable. His tie was new but his suit was second hand, and he nervously fiddled with the too-long cuffs as he listened his companion—not his date, Sherlock was relieved to note—someone affiliated with the event. He gave her a cursory glance, resentful that he had to divert his gaze from the stranger for even a moment. Upper crust family but nouveau riche, still working her way through the echelons of the elite, hopes speaking engagements will launch a modeling career, ridiculous at her age, though a clothing line may be a suitable alternative. Obviously one of the presenters for the evening. As he drew near, the woman tipped her head back in a well-practiced laugh, though the man wore a tight expression that was more grimace than smile. Definitely uncomfortable.

"Pardon the interruption, but I've been told there's an issue with the sound system, and they need someone to assist with mic checks." Sherlock gave his most dazzling fake smile. "You are the host, aren't you? Clearly you were made for the stage."

The woman blushed and covered a coy giggle with her hand.

"No, I'm just a presenter, though I do have some experience in the limelight."

"Oh, I'm sorry to have bothered you, but they are in desperate need of someone who knows their way around a mic."

"I suppose if they need a professional, I could spare a few minutes." She cast an apologetic look at the man at her side, who seemed more intrigued by this distraction than he had been in their conversation. "Lovely to meet you, John." She touched his arm and he gave a polite nod, then she swept away in a swirl of chiffon and Chanel.

Alone at last. Sherlock turned to the blond stranger— _John—_ and found he had no idea what to say. He knew there were words, protocol for conversation, some social niceties to ease the way out of what was becoming a rather awkward silence, but his mind was utterly blank. All he registered were fathomless cobalt eyes framed by golden lashes, staring up at him expectantly.

"So, you work here?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion. "No."

"Right, well, you mentioned the mic troubles. Hope nothing's too fuck— er, broken, to cause a problem with the event."

"No, no, everything's fine. You just looked like you needed saving."

Amusement flitted over the man's features before he corralled them into a wry expression.

“You lied to that woman just to get me out of a boring conversation?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Hardly a lie, John, there are always sound problems at these sorts of affairs. I’m sure her assistance will be better appreciated than her discourse.”

John shook his head, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“And how would _you_ keep me entertained?”

Oh god, was the man flirting with him? He had never been on the receiving end of such attention, and he was equal parts terrified that he was misreading the situation and that he was not. Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room, seeking a distraction from the crimson blush he could feel flooding his face.

“See that crossbeam?” Sherlock leaned into the man’s space, much closer than was strictly necessary, and pointed to the lighting fixture over the stage. “In less than five minutes, I can rig it to drop on the podium by loosening those three bolts—” He gestured to the weak points in the scaffolding. “—and time it so the torque doesn’t shear the metal until I’ve returned to this spot, no one but you the wiser.” He could feel John turn towards him, breath hot on his neck, and it took all his willpower to straighten up and pull away.

“You could really do that?” The awe in his voice drew Sherlock’s gaze back to John’s face. Something glinted in his eye, and there it was, the gleam that had snagged Sherlock's subconscious and made him take a second look: aptitude for danger. There was more to this man, passions roiling beneath the bland veneer, and Sherlock wanted to tease them out, bring that thrilling spark to the surface.

“Child’s play. Are you game?” John’s pupils dilated; yes, he was most definitely interested in what Sherlock was offering, even if Sherlock himself wasn’t quite sure what that was. The air between them was charged with potential, and he suppressed the shiver that threatened to break the tenuous anticipation.

“Tempting as that is, we should probably aim for something less destructive.” John looked down into his drink. “I could really use this grant money.”

“I’m sure the university wouldn’t rescind their award due to technical difficulties.”

John chuckled and shook his head, then drained his glass in one go. “Better not risk it.”

Sherlock eyed him speculatively.

“If you really want to save money, you could room with me. I’ve got a private double to myself.”

The man looked up at him in surprise. “How’d you swing that?”

“After my sixth roommate in as many days put in for a transfer, administration decided it was more efficient to just leave me be. Haven’t had one since.”

John blinked. “And you want… me… to be your roommate? We just met, we don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t even know your name.”

“I know you’re a med student aspiring to trauma surgery, been considering military service to fund your medical training ever since you lost your rugby scholarship due to an injury last spring, though this award would help delay that decision for another year — two if you don’t have to pay for off-campus rent, might I add. The money you’re currently putting towards your flatshare with four —no, five— ex-rugby mates is a complete waste; you can hardly get a decent night’s sleep with their penchant for drink, and getting wasted with them just doesn’t feel the same since you got dropped from the team. Nothing feels the same anymore, in fact, and you’re thinking about enlisting in the armed forces anyway, regardless of this award, in hopes of feeling _something_ again. One might be tempted to call it depression but really it’s adrenaline withdrawal, and the last ten minutes have been the most exciting of your week. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

The lights dimmed, signalling the end of cocktail hour, and waiters began gently shooing people to their seats. Sherlock leaned forward, grinning at John’s mask of stunned admiration, and the naked intrigue simmering beneath.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two two one Baker Hall.” He winked and spun away, leaving John standing there, mouth agape. As he strode to his assigned table, he let out the breath he’d been holding and replayed the exchange in his head. For his first true attempt at flirting, it didn’t go half bad. John seemed more than curious, without a trace of the anger or indignation that usually accompanied Sherlock’s deductions, and there was definite hunger in his eyes — though whether for Sherlock or the thrilling life he promised, he wasn’t sure. Only time would tell.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not brit-picked, and to my knowledge these awards don't exist, so don't go trying to apply for the Oxford Grant (^_~) 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!


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